I frown. “What exactly are you saying?”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m saying that if I put serious money into your work right now, I may have trouble reselling. Collectors pay for certainty. Sienna Roth just introduced doubt.”
The word irritates more than the insult.
Doubt.
I push back from the chair and stand before he can soften it with diplomacy. “So you’re pulling out because of a review?”
Abram looks almost regretful. “I don’t want to. But I’ll wait. Let the dust settle. Your pieces aren’t cheap, Sebastian. I can’t afford to miscalculate.”
Something cold locks into place inside my chest.
I step closer, leaning my hands against the edge of his desk, forcing him to look at me. “This will be sorted,” I say quietly. “And when it is, don’t call me.”
His brows lift. “Sebastian—”
“I don’t appreciate hesitation,” I cut in. “Or men who mistake temporary noise for truth.”
Silence stretches between us.
Abram finally nods, stiff. “Understood.”
I straighten, adjust my jacket, and turn without another word.
As I walk out of the office, past assistants who suddenly won’t meet my eyes, one thought burns clean and precise in my mind—
Sienna Roth didn’t just critique my work.
She disrupted my world.
And I don’t lose control of my world.
Not to critics.
Not to doubt.
And certainly not to a woman who thinks she can carve me open with words and walk away untouched.
Marko, my right-hand man, is waiting in the car when I slide into the backseat. The door shuts with a muted thud, sealing me back into myself. The interior smells faintly of leather and gun oil—familiar, grounding. The city hums beyond the tinted windows.
He turns halfway in his seat, brows already drawn together. “Is something wrong?”
He’s Hungarian, and his accent thickens when he’s concerned.
“Harlem Winston just backed out of the deal we were about to close,” he continues. “He’s the Chairman of the East Coast Art Acquisition Board and doesn’t usually flinch.” He studies my face. “What happened in there?”
“Roth,” I say.
One word. Sharp as glass.
Marko exhales through his nose and doesn’t ask another question. He’s known me long enough to recognize the signs—the tightness in my jaw, the stillness that means violence has nowhere to go. Not here. Not yet.
The car pulls into traffic.
I pull out my phone.
Her review has metastasized.
